Magic of the Seine
by nicknamewizard
Summary: Javert attempts to drown himself in the Seine, but the river has other plans... Complete, but might be expanded later.


**A/N: **So, here's a little one-shot about our dear Inspector Javert. I don't want to say much about it, 'cause I might expand, and I might not, depending on how the winds blow, I guess. I hope it intrigues you, in any case.

Javert hit harder than he had expected. It felt as if he had landed on a solid street, rather than the soft, malleable fluid that he had observed from the top of the bridge. He inhaled a mouthful of the damnable liquid, and found that he somewhat regretted his hasty decision. It was not very well thought out, now, was it? If he really, honestly, wanted to die, maybe a bullet would have been a little bit simpler.

Spluttering, he flailed about in the cold river, trying to keep his head above the surface. His entire body stung from the impact, making it a difficult task to stay afloat. Why, why had he jumped? This was all really quite ridiculous. Javert couldn't help but utter a singular cry of frustration, and was rewarded for his troubles with another lungful of the muddy Seine.

It was becoming rather challenging to stay awake, what with the cold and the exhaustion and the bloody _water… _He tried to swim for the shore, but after struggling about and making no progress, he considered giving up. Again. He had made his choice, hadn't he? There was simply no room in the world for both himself and Jean Valjean, and all that, right? Besides, after all this disgrace, floundering in the surf like a fish on land, he would be too ashamed to show his face anywhere around Paris ever again.

Suddenly, a cramp seized the Inspector's hamstring, and he cried out in pain. He grabbed at his leg, choking on yet another mouthful of not-air, and cursed the very bones of the bloody idiot Valjean who had forced Javert into this unbelievable situation. Yes, it was probably better at this point to just let himself drown; end his misery and the like. After all, he wouldn't hesitate to shoot a crippled horse, so why should he treat himself any differently?

With one last breath of sweet air, Javert relaxed and let himself sink beneath the waves.

The water, however, seemed to have a different plan. At the strange sensation of not-drowning, Javert cracked open an eyelid and was surprised to find that although his body was fully submerged, there remained a bubble of air around his head, allowing him to breathe. He also noted that the water began to feel comfortably warm, not at all like the icy chill he had experienced when he first entered the river. A little fish swam by, looking at him out of one shining eye curiously and, Javert imagined, a little disdainfully. "Hmm. Quite," he remarked to the creature as it passed.

Not one for sitting on his hands idly whilst salmon and all manner of fishes went on their merry ways around him, Javert decided to test the limitations of this new development. He kicked out with his hands and feet, swimming along the bottom of the river like a rather ungraceful burbot, and to his immense satisfaction found that the bubble of air moved with him. It would seem that he could, in a manner of speaking, breathe underwater.

The Inspector took himself for a lively romp below the surface of the Seine, frolicking with the fish and tangling himself in the weeds and finding so many wonderful trinkets that people had lost to the great river over the years, including an old rusted pocket watch that reminded him somewhat unhappily of his mother… Though he would never admit it, he found it to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

When he resurfaced, it was full morning. A light, refreshing breeze ruffled his hair, which had dried off inside of the bubble, and the customary pre-dawn river fog had neglected to stick around in the sight of the happy sun. It promised to be a beautiful day, but as Javert hauled himself out of the river and to his feet, he discovered that he already missed the cool feel of the water making his body weightless. He felt clunky on land, a fact that wasn't helped by the soaked-through state of his clothing. His greatcoat hung from him like a sack of stones, and the ticklish wriggling in his inner pocket turned out to be a handful of leeches. With some disgust, he threw them back into the river.

Even the simple act of walking forward proved to be quite the task, as Javert's feet seemed to be hovering over the soles of his boots from the sheer amount of water in them. He sat down to take them off, but to his annoyance, couldn't manage to do it, for the leather clung to his calves like a second skin. Sighing, he resigned himself to walking home in his waterlogged garments, fully expecting to trip and fall through every street in Paris before he could fall into his own soft bed by his own blazing fire.

Yet, when he regained his feet, the water began to roll off of his clothes in waves and rivulets and make its way back to the river. He wiggled his toes gratefully against the bottoms of his boots as his feet reconnected with the now-dry material, and his shoulders straightened into their habitual rigidity as the burden of what seemed to be half the Seine flowed from his coat. Javert cocked an eyebrow at the strange behavior of the water, but, he supposed, if saints could be convicts, water too should be allowed to have its eccentricities.

He adjusted his cravat, and aimed his feet in the direction of the Rue de l'Homme Arme. It would appear that he had words to share with a certain old jailbird, after all.


End file.
